


Day 18: Mistletoe

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 25 Days of Fic-Mas (originally posted to tumblr) [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Mistletoe, christmas gifts, some angst but mostly they just love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally gives Sherlock his Christmas gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 18: Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Just gonna stop you right here. This is a sequel to [Day 1: Shopping for gifts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344070), so you might wanna check that one out before reading this one :)  
> Thanks for reading!

John is nearly dozing off in his armchair by the time Sherlock returns from the morgue. He jolts up when he hears the door to the flat creak open, tentatively pushed by Sherlock. He probably thinks John’s asleep, and just the fact that he had tried not to wake him makes John smile warmly to himself. Sherlock’s head peeks around the edge of the door to get a look inside the flat. When he sees John awake and smiling, he bursts the rest of the way through the door and starts explaining what he saw today at top speed.

“John! It was incredible, they had thought he died of natural causes when in reality, his brother knew he had autosomal dominant polycystic renal disease and had been feeding him extra salt in all of his food to precipitate renal failure, and by the time the victim realized something was wrong and had come to the hospital, his kidneys were the size of…” Sherlock trails off, one hand still pulling off his glove, as his eyes catch on the mistletoe tied above John’s chair. He pulls off the rest of the glove and slowly hangs up his coat, eyes still fixed on the ceiling above John’s head. He takes a step forward, suddenly seeming unsure of himself.

“John? You’re standing under…” He waves his hand vaguely at the ceiling, clearly not sure if he wants to finish his sentence. John holds out his hand, and Sherlock stares at his for a few moments before cottoning on. He slides his fingers into John’s and looks down at their joined hands.

“Mistletoe, Sherlock,” and John gently lifts Sherlock’s head so that he can look into his eyes. Sherlock’s eyes are widened in disbelief, and John feels like he needs to explain himself.

“I was trying to find the perfect gift for you.” He pauses as Sherlock shakes his head. John shakes his own back, and strokes a thumb across his cheekbone. Sherlock’s eyes jump back to his. “We’ve both been idiots, haven’t we? I’ve loved you for five years and never had the courage to tell you to your face.”

He pauses again as Sherlock’s jaw drops in shock. “So here it is. I love you, Sherlock.”

He reaches for the back of Sherlock’s head so he can pull their faces together, and feels Sherlock’s quiet sigh against his lips just before he brushes Sherlock’s with his own. It’s a chaste, gentle kiss, and John pulls Sherlock closer so he can breathe him in as he leans in for another. Sherlock slowly starts to respond, his initial shock fading. John runs a hand down his shoulder blades to get him as close as he can, but his hand strokes over something harder, fibrous, and he freezes. Sherlock freezes, too.

John pulls back, still stroking his fingers across Sherlock’s shoulder blade. “Sherlock? What…”

Sherlock turns his head to the side, but doesn’t pull away. “It’s… nothing, John. I’m actually quite tired from the dissection today, lots of deducing to do, we should probably go to bed –”

John grabs his hand before he can pull away. “Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock looks torn in a way John has never seen him. It slowly starts to dawn on John that he hasn’t seen Sherlock parading around in his infamous bed sheet since he returned; unlike before he… before, everything is always perfectly covered up, as if Sherlock has suddenly developed a sense of modesty.

John tilts his head, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye, and when he finally does, Sherlock heaves a sigh. “John, I’d never meant for you to… Well…” He’s uncharacteristically lost for words, and John waits patiently until Sherlock breathes, “Here,” and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Once the buttons are undone, Sherlock undoes the cuffs and slowly turns around. In one swift motion, he drops the shirt to the ground, and John lets out an involuntary gasp.

Sherlock’s back is covered in scars. There are cigarette burns on one of his shoulder blades, which are probably what John had touched before, because the scar tissue over them is incredibly thick. There are long lines slashing across his back, the silvery-pink colour of well-healed wounds, as well as shorter, deeper puncture wounds in several places. John’s hands start to shake with the fury of not being able to track down who did this, just as Sherlock whispers, “Mycroft took care of that already, John.”

And then John realizes this isn’t about the people who did this to the person he loves most in this world. He realizes it’s about Sherlock, who is currently standing alone and shirtless in the middle of their sitting room, waiting to see how John will react to his scars. John shakes his head, clearing it, then steps forward to hug Sherlock from behind. Sherlock startles briefly, then lets himself relax into the warmth of John’s arms. John holds him for a moment, then pulls him down so that Sherlock is sitting on the floor and John is kneeling behind him, still holding him. He pulls his shirt off to even the playing field a little, his own scar’s presence a heavy weight on his mind.

He hugs Sherlock close, then presses his mouth near his ear and says, “Tell me.”

He brushes his fingers against the highest cigarette burn on Sherlock’s right shoulder blade. Sherlock says quietly, “Hungary. Caught by some arms dealers.”

John brushes his lips against it, softly, and whispers back, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” as Sherlock gasps at the contact. He lets his mouth linger for a moment, then lets his fingers slide over to one of the whip marks.

“Serbia. I misjudged the intelligence of a top gang member.” John drags his mouth from the cigarette burn and lets it rest where his fingers are. He gives another tentative, chaste kiss and whispers, “I love you, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

John lets his fingers linger on every scar on Sherlock’s back, until he’s claimed each one for his own with an apology, for not being there, for not being able to help, for getting Sherlock shot, for never telling him he loved him before he’d jumped. John has never felt this much raw honesty between them, and when he finally pulls Sherlock’s chin around to face him, he knows that Sherlock feels the same way.

He gently presses his lips to Sherlock’s, less chaste this time, and Sherlock gasps quietly as their mouths open against each other. They stay like that, breathing each other in, until John darts out his tongue to gently stroke along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock whimpers into his mouth when he does, and when Sherlock pulls him closer, John knows he’s lost. They run their hands all over each other, rearranging themselves so that Sherlock is sitting against John’s armchair and John is straddling his outstretched legs. John winds his hands in luscious curls as Sherlock makes muffled, desperate sounds. He drags his mouth down Sherlock’s jaw to where he can feel Sherlock’s pulse thrumming beneath his lips, and Sherlock cries out _Please_ into his neck. They’re so close together he can feel every one of Sherlock’s breaths, and the thought is intoxicating and desperately sad all at once as he thinks of how much time they’ve wasted, how long they’ve kept themselves from each other.

John reaches down and presses a hand against the front of Sherlock’s trousers, making Sherlock arch into him with another quiet _Please_. Sherlock’s hands are clawing into his back, holding him, and John has never felt a connection like this before. He quickly undoes their flies and gets them both out of their trousers, feeling Sherlock’s hiss through his entire body when he wraps his hand around them both. Sherlock is trembling with tension as he muffles his groans in John’s neck, and John has never seen anything more beautiful in his life. Sherlock, like this, is perfection, and even if he’s known that for five years, he’d never thought he’d be able to see it with his own eyes. He drags his mouth back up to Sherlock’s and savours the feeling of their tongues stroking together, of finally being able to _taste_ Sherlock, and he shudders as he realizes he’s close. Sherlock’s back is bent in a perfect arch as John feels him twitch in his hand, and suddenly Sherlock is dragging him closer as he cries John’s name into his mouth. John feels his heart swell in his chest as he follows Sherlock over the edge, clutching Sherlock to himself as he collapses against him, panting.

Sherlock slides down the front of the arm chair until they’re lying on the ground, Sherlock resting his head on John’s chest as their legs tangle together on the sitting room floor. John puts his arms around him, holding Sherlock against him as he looks at the mistletoe he’d put up what seems like years ago, now. Sherlock murmurs something into his chest.

“What was that, love?” John whispers into his curls.

Sherlock raises his head, and John can see his eyes are slightly damp. He looks heartbroken as he replies, “I didn’t get you a Christmas gift, John. You offered me… this. The rest of our lives. And I don’t have anything for you.”

John hears the hidden message there, _What could I possibly have to offer you?_ , and he cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, making sure Sherlock can see his expression, making sure he _understands_. “You gave me yourself. You came back. There’s nothing else I could possibly want.”

Sherlock’s eye seem even more damp than before, and John wonders for a moment if he’s said something wrong, but then Sherlock whispers _I love you so much, John Watson_ , and John knows he’s never felt more right in his existence.

They lie there on the floor, fingers laced together over John’s chest, staring at the mistletoe above them until they start to drift towards sleep. John gently nudges Sherlock awake again, and together, hand in hand, they pad off towards _their_ bedroom, for the first night of the rest of their lives.


End file.
